CHAPTER FOUR: "CLIFF"
In a smoky bar at the edge of the city, a young man named Cliff Barton was watching the world's most frustrating game of baseball. His team was down by only three runs with not much time left in the inning. Based loaded. The opposing team's best batter was up and Cliff's heart was threatening to beat it's way out of his chest and catch the next bus to California.
Cliff closed his eyes and held his hands in front of him and said, "God...now I know you're in charge of this stuff and frankly, if i were you, I wouldn't be willing to listen to me do this either. But I'm telling you right now, If you do this for me, I'll make sure the orphanage gets its fair share, okay?"
The pitcher blasted his fastest ball and watched as it got smashed out of the park and into the stands. Four points. Game over.
The bartended gave Cliff a nasty glare. "God doesn't seem to like you, Cliff."
"No, obviously God hates orphans." Cliff said with a sigh. He took out his trusty notepad and began marking down a small number, then added it to another number and finally added up a small row of numbers until he had one number specifically: 522.
Cliff smiled. "Alright. That's not so bad. Way to go me."
Suddenly, a hand clamped on his shoulder. Cliff was spun around and found himself staring up at the man in black jeans and button down shirt. His impassive stare was eclipsed by the wide brimmed, black cowboy hat on his head.
Cliff grinned nervously, "Oh...h-hey Vaughn."
The cowboy Vaughn looked at the bartender, who silently made his way to anywhere else but here and now. Cliff glanced around and noticed the bar had emptied rather quickly, with some people leaving wads of cash for drinks not even finished.
Not that Cliff blamed them. It was Vaughn.
"The boss paid you good money, Cliff. Due. Now."
Cliff swallowed and said, "Well, hey, look, I ain't got five hundred bucks right off the bat. I mean, gimmie a couple of days. I can make that money slinging fish of the boats down at the pier, no problem."
"Five hundred?" Vaughn snickered, his long arm reaching past Cliff to take a pickled quail's egg off the counter. He swallowed it in two bites. "Where did you get that number?"
Cliff showed Vaughn his notepad. "See? I kept a meticulous track of every bet and every dollar spent and in the end I owe your boss $522. Not so bad, really. I broke even a few times and lost a bit at the track-"
"You forgot to carry the one." Vaughn's strong voice cut through Cliff's soul.
"What?"
Vaughn took the pencil from Cliff and reworked his math, then showed it to him. "You were missing a few zeros."
Cliff saw the number Vaughn had calculated and his face went white. His heart dropped into his left boot and his stomach was suddenly full of jell-o. "That...that...that's IMPOSSIBLE!"
"Interest." Vaughn answered, "Adds up, doesn't it? I kept a closer eye on you than you think. If I'm not mistaken, this baseball game is the last of your cash."
Cliff patted his pocket, "Don't worry, I got about twenty scratch-offs in here. No way I don't win at least a thousand. That'll be enough of a down payment to make Mr. Naminaga happy, right?" Oh God, please let it be right.
Vaughn, however, did not look happy. In fact, he looked rather angry. "I'm not happy, Cliff. Not happy. Do you know what I do when I'm not happy?"
Cliff had to keep his hands on his knees to keep them from rattling together. "Do you...um...play cards?"
"I drink whisky." Vaughn said. He walked-sauntered, really-around the bar and produced a bottle of whiskey. Cowboy boots clacking on the floor, he returned to the bar next to Cliff and started drinking long shots of whiskey.
This wasn't the first run-in with people like Vaughn that Cliff had ever had. In fact, he was on a first name basis with the top bouncers and thugs in Atlantic City, Vegas, and half of New York City. The bookies knew him, their muscle knew him, and the cops knew him too. He couldn't help it. It's not like he wanted to lose those bets. He just didn't have the luck for it.
But he figured that was how it would work: he'd lose and lose so badly that eventually he'd get a hot streak and hit it big. He had too. Nobody was this bad a loser this much of the time.
Much of the time was a bit of an understatement. Cliff hadn't had luck since the day he was born-even before that. According to the orphanage who had raised him, he'd been found floating in his basket down a small canal. Too unwanted to warrant a drop off at a church, even. He'd been passed over by every foster parent in the city. But he always made it through. He was tough. Being tough was underrated.
All the while, Cliff took stupid chances. He knew they were stupid, but he always hedged his bets and went for broke. He did anything and everything he could think of and rarely-if ever-did he get away with it. The culmination of this had been when, at sixteen, he'd been caught playing "Hide the Choo-Choo" with his science teacher. Now, copulating with your teacher was bad enough, but the fact that she was a nun was so much worse. He'd not only been expelled from school, but excommunicated from the catholic faith in general.
And since then, it had been one bad bet after another. How bookies kept giving him money, he'd never know, but give him they did and each batch was his chance to finally get out of his hellish life and into something a little more glamorous. In his mind, he envisioned himself in a sea of riches, surrounded by the hottest girls surgery could build.
It was an easy dream. It was, in fact, the only thing of his that he owned besides his own clothes. Cliff had no roots. No family. Barely any friends. He only knew how to do two things: bet and play bass guitar. Neither one made him money. Every time he swore to go straight, he'd lose his job within weeks. Sometimes he hated the job, sometimes the job hated him, sometimes it was an accident, others he got caught with a pretty girl or two. He had a weakness for girls: they liked him and he liked them back, but like his betting, his relationships were over almost as soon as they started. Eventually, he gave up and kept to flings and one-night stands.
Vaughn finished off a fourth glass in no time at all and said, "There we go. Now I've got a nice buzz going. You know, Cliff, I saw you across the bar and I saw you praying. I didn't take you for a religious man."
"Normally, I'm not." said Cliff.
Vaughn nodded, "Of course. My dad was pretty religious. He asked God for forgiveness every time he beat me or my mom. One night, he caught me praying right before he was about the wail into me. You know what he said, Cliff?"
Cliff shook his head.
Vaughn took another shot of whiskey and said, "God is good…but never dance in a small boat."
Vaughn's fist plowed into Cliff's gut and brought him off his feet. Cliff collapsed at the foot of the bar and tried to take in another breath when suddenly he found Vaughn's boot in his ribs, blowing his breath out. Cliff tried to breath, but each one was a short gasp and he turned his face up to Vaughn and stuffed his hands between his legs.
Anything but his hands.
Vaughn proceed to smash Cliff in the face with his heel and rained blows into his body. Cliff took it and then some. It felt like hours he was beaten with that damned cowboy boot and its tip and felt Vaughn's knuckles denting his flesh. But at some point, Vaughn finally told him, "Stand up."
Not wanting to risk further harm, Cliff got to his feet, using the bar for support and looked up just in time for Vaughn to break the whiskey bottle over his face.
He fell backwards, feeling the shards of glass in the skin of his face, blood trailing down his face in small rivers. Cliff's eyes swam and his vision looked like he was glancing out a window smeared with Vaseline. Vaughn stood over him…no, two Vaughn's stood over him, shimmering and blurry. Vaughn said, "The money. End of the week. I know where you live. Have the money…because your future health depends on it."
As Cliff lied in his own blood, his face stinging with whiskey, thought calmly to himself that not for the first time he hated his life.
